


Delirium

by kriadydragon



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-16
Updated: 2006-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is ill, Delirious, and taking it out on inanimate objects. Written in first person, Rodney POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delirium

Run, run as fast as you can. Running is neither a hobby, pastime, or means of exercise for me, and only a necessity when I wish to keep body parts intact and wraith from fondling my chest. John was officially a dead man, he just didn't know it yet.

The burning in my lungs was leaking into my legs that jarred painfully when foot met solid metal floor. I had my eyes doing a basketball motion of up and down from life signs detector to blue-lit corridor. I was getting closer, because thanks to the powers that be I normally deny believing in, the man hadn't moved from his current location. I gripped the detector tight, just in case rounding the corner, entering the room, or whatever had me involuntarily chucking the thing at the Colonel's head. A power bar would be a safer projectile, but I wasn't in the mood to play nice.

Besides, with the state Sheppard was in, throwing could easily be passed off as an act of self defense. Ironic, really. All the times when he was clear headed enough to think in at least a semi-straight line, and his infirmary great escapes barely got him four feet from his bed. A fever born delirium gets him loopier than my cat on nip, and he's vanished so fast that Carson had gone straight to Caldwell to see if the Daedalus had beamed him up. The search became city wide, as did the desire to inflict some sort of further discomfort on Sheppard. Not that we would, his own body's doing a fine enough job making his life miserable, but a few dropped hints to Carson about large needles and a catheter shouldn't leave us suffering too bad of a guilt trip.

I was closer now, so felt justified in my pause to catch my breath. The air of the corridor stirred strong enough to lift a few wisps of my hair and allow my nose to catch the scent of seawater. A balcony, or course. Didn't matter where the man went or how much he wanted to hide, balconies called to him like the smell of broiled steak to a starving man. It made me wonder if Sheppard harbored some sort of secret claustrophobia, or – like the rest of us – went straight to the outdoors after the infirmary to clean the nose of the smell. Antiseptic has this uncanny ability of gluing itself to the olfactory senses. Seriously, it takes like days to get the smell out, and by then scrambled eggs have lost all their appeal. Although coffee does a good job of getting rid of it...

Rambling, sorry.

I pushed my burning legs on at a fast walk, following the scent and gathering my biting witticism for the barrage of insults I planned on setting lose that would do the best at ripping him a new one. Sheppard never could get it through his thick skull the domino effect of panic he sends rippling through the city every time he takes off. It's bad enough he sets off a tsunami each time we have to drag his bleeding and broken carcass through the gate because he's stuck on this ridiculous notion that he's expendable. _Go on ahead, I'll cover you, I'll draw fire, leave me behind..._ on and on and on, I swear he has a new one every time. I accuse him of hero complexes, an addict of wanting to go down in a blaze or glory, and being a man who can't stand not being the center of attention.

Except I'm not an idiot. The hero and blaze of glory thing stands – center of attention I just say to piss him off. If the man craved the spotlight then the simple way would be to get hurt less and talk more, and loud. Or maybe it's the sympathy he craved, people (ahem, women for the most part) fawning over him as he lay sick and helpless in the hospital bed.

Exceeeept – again – he tends to be the pissiest individual in any galaxy when he's down for the count, repelling everyone away like the same ends of a magnet. You have to look at it logically, you see, which I have no choice _but_ to since that's the track my brain runs. People who like being called 'poor baby' don't keep trying to escape the place where the words are more likely to be said.

I'll be honest (not out loud, never out loud within hearing range of Colonel kill or be killed) injury has nothing to do with attention, and that scares me, so I pretend it has everything to do with it just to make myself feel better and put off contemplating the possible truth.

Suicidal? That's kind of pushing it. Not so much suicidal as not caring whether he lives or dies, and that's what scares me. He gets quite the hairs breath away from shaking hands with death, and Carson's chicken sacrificing can only go so far from pulling the man back from the brink. I try not to think about it, but it's the things you try not to think about that you end up thinking about too much; and what I _try_ not to think about is the day when Sheppard goes down and stays down forever.

I think that's why I don't like attachments. I'm not super glue, things don't stick with me for long. Hell, not even my cat was a permanent fixture in my life (then again, when are pets ever permanent). Maybe it could be if I could convince Elizabeth to let us bring animals to Atlantis with the promise of never taking them on missions, maybe start of with fish to ease her into the idea...

Crap, rambling again. You'd think Sheppard's easement at pissing me off would have made us enemies a long time ago. But no; fate, destiny, chaos, or maybe those same powers that be punishing me for being so blatantly sacrilegious thought it would be a laugh riot to have me forming a bond with a man with an indeterminate life expectancy. Okay, maybe 'bond' is too strong a word. Mutual respect? Ha! People would drop dead laughing hysterically if I said that. Not even I'm in that deep of denial. What it comes down to is this inexplicable ability to put up with eachother, and Sheppard's persistent desire to hang out with me. All right, so I reciprocate invitations to explore some of the city that usually ends with both of us or one of us (Sheppard one of us) ending up in the infirmary or getting chewed up and spit out by Weir, but it's only because I'll do just about anything to get him out of my hair for future quiet time.

I'll admit, it's nice being invited to do stuff by a guy of the kind that had shoved me out of locker rooms in nothing but my birthday suit. Maybe he's making up for all the geeks he's shoved around as a punk jock, or maybe his inner math geek has him drawn to form friendships with fellow geeks.

Or maybe he's just as pathetically lonely as me. Yeah, dream on McKay.

The corridor was a little less twilight, and I saw the faint amber glow of daylight spilling across the floor. Fast walk turned into a slow walk, and even slower as I turned toward the source of that light, squinting against the knife-jabbing glare that had pain spiking through my brain. A few blinks and mumbled curses, and my eyes adjusted enough to find my quarry crouched out on the balcony with scrub shirt and pants flapping sideways in the wind like magenta flags. The shirt pressed into his back like a second skin faintly outlining the left side of his ribcage. I could count the individual vertebrae of his spine – okay, mostly the center of his spine the way his back was tightly curved, interrupted by the white strap of the sling holding his right arm. It was... gross. Simple word for a not even skirting the edge of simple mind, but sometimes simple worked best.

Sheppard didn't lose weight gracefully. Truthfully he wasn't all that bad off in comparison to past ailments, not really emaciated but given a few more days... Anyways, being mostly skin, bone, and ropey muscle, he didn't have any fat to lose, so that left muscle.

The way John was huddled up, the way he was coughing and shivering, my immediate assumption was that he was cold. So, being the 'friend' that I was, I rolled my eyes, removed my jacket and place it on his shoulders, then revved the engines for a good verbal smack down.

" You get sicker, it'll serve you right, so don't expect me to be sympathetic." I looked passed John's shoulder at thin tendrils of smoke coiling upward to be dissipated in the breeze bursts. " What the hell are you doing?"

John's head whipped around to stare at me with glassy, unfocused eyes sunken into a pale going on gray face. Not the glassy, glazed look he gives me when I'm explaining a theory or pitching ideas to Weir – those didn't make my skin try to crawl off my body. Sheppard was looking exceptionally manic today. When he smiled, I had to lock my knees to keep from backing slowly away.

Raccoon eyes and colorless features weren't the only visual discomforts I had to endure. The alien virus or bacteria or whatever it was going at Sheppard with mini axes was a flu clone with a few extra quirks. If Sheppard wasn't coughing, he was puking, and the full-body tremors were a constant no matter how many blankets were put on him. The worst of the worst, however, were his eyes swimming it what could only be described – even in scientific terms – as goop. Watery goop for the most part that made him look as though he were about to cry, though if it became thick enough actually hazed the eye in its milky consistency, turning the green-brown color to gray – pupil too. Today, his left eye was suffering the slime coat, which meant he wasn't able to see too well out of it. The skin around both eyes was crusted over with excess eye snot starting at the tear duct and going both up toward the eyebrow and down to the darker skin beneath the bottom eyelid. It was at its most disgusting whenever he woke up, and had to literally pull his eyelids apart with his fingers.

The pinnacle of it all, though, was the delirium. Hallucinations, incoherence – all around utter madness making him Sheppard in Wonderland. He hasn't made sense for a week and three days now.

John sniffed a liquid sounding inhale and wiped his nose. Don't mean to sound gross, but too bad. If I have to suffer seeing it, you have to suffer hearing about it. The wiping spread clear mucus across both face and wrist.

" Hey McKay," he said, his voice hoarse and extra nasaly (yeah, I'm making up words, so sue me). A cough followed his words, extra liquid sounding than his sniff, and apparently painful because John winced. But of course it'd be painful from the combination of cracked ribs and soar muscles. I've probably said or at least thought this on dozens of occasions, but it really sucks to be Sheppard.

Snapping from my fugue of shock, unease, but mostly disgust directed at the foggy eye, I twitched and shoved the life signs detector into my pocket (I refuse to use the abbreviation of LSD. If cops had a means of listening in across the cosmos, we'd be busted up to our eyeballs.)

" Um," I stammered. Sheppard was really starting to make me nervous. " Hey." I slowly moved around to his left, eyes going straight to the source of the coiling smoke. In front of Sheppard was what looked to be an old coffee can, and he had a fire going in it, feeding the flames using Q-tips. Q-tips! He had a whole pack of four hundred Q-tips next to the can, along with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and something beneath several tissues being held in place by both the alcohol and the Q-tip box.

I pointed at the internally glowing can with flames licking and blackening the sides. " Um, what the hell are you doing?"

Sheppard tossed on a few more Q-tips using his left hand. " Building up the fire."

" Uh-huh. You know, if you're cold, we've got this really cool gadget called a heater, and I mean really awesome being in a technologically advanced city and all. Seriously, Colonel, no need to resort to cave man methods. Unless this is your poor attempt at going camping. Because if it is, then hate to let you down, but you forgot the marshmallows."

John coughed, hacked, and leaned to the side to spit a wad of phlegm between the supports of the rail. Needless to say, I grimaced.

" Marshmallows are insufficient. Won't burn. These," he lifted the box of Q-tips, then dropped them with a clatter of plastic, " burn better."

I shook my head. " Beckett's going to be pissed when he catches you doing this."

John shrugged his good shoulder. " Doesn't matter. Evil necessity, McKay. We've all gotta make sacrifices."

" True. Okay. So, then, why, exactly, are you sacrificing poor defenseless Q-tips? Couldn't find any virgin tongue depressors?"

John looked back up at me with that smile that tried to get my flesh to separate from my bones.

" For the ultimate sacrifice, McKay."

All right, I've indulged him. It was time to end the nut-fest and get him inside before Beckett had us both suffering catheters. " Mm-hmmm. Hey, what say you do that inside where it's nice and warm. Or go find Beckett so you can tell him all about it."

I reached down for Sheppard's arm while at the same time going for my radio. Both efforts were halted when John knocked my hand away.

" No! I have to do this. It has to be done. Just let me do this..."

I straightened with an eye roll and finished bringing my hand to the radio at my ear.

" Beckett, this is McKay. I've found Sheppard on my end so start heading over with blankets and a straitjacket if you've got one."

" I receive you Rodney," Beckett replied. " I'm on my way. Just don't let him go anywhere."

" Oh, I doubt that's going to be an issue. He seems quite content where he is," then I added in a lower voice. " Consider bringing a sedative."

" Why? Is he acting violent?"

I wanted to roll my eyes again, but was quick to catch the futility of it. " Carson, are you really not that aware of his mental state after having been around him for a week? Get with the program, get your butt in gear, and don't forget the sleepy-juice. McKay out."

Returning my attention to Sheppard, I jumped. The loopy Colonel was looking a little less loopy the way he was glaring at me, with gaze almost but not quite coherent. He continued tossing on the Q-tips one at a time.

Then he smiled a thin, bitter smile. " Thanks McKay."

I crouched down beside him with a snort. " Get over it. Chances are I just saved your life... again. Besides, if you don't want in the infirmary to begin with, then stop putting yourself there."

I waited for the retort, the prickling of self-defense, and wasn't disappointed.

" I don't put myself in there."

It was his tone that threw me. Not defensive but quiet, subdued – I could have sworn almost depressed as though the mere mention of the word infirmary had dashed all his hopes and dreams into fragments. He tossed on more Q-tips to flames made extra pungent from burning something other than wood. I suspected the alcohol bottle was half empty for reasons other than him drinking it, which was a relief.

I threw my hands up, dropping them to slap my knees. " Well, you certainly fooled me Colonel courageous because the way you jump in front of bullets and try to take on guys bigger, meaner, half the time more numerous and the other half barely human than you has certainly been telling me other wise. So I guess that proves you really did go tumbling down that rather long, steep hill with all the massive sharp rocks because it was fun, and not because it was a convenient way to get hurt."

John wiped his nose utilizing his whole arm from hand to elbow, even with the neat little pile of tissues right beside him. " I went tumbling because that guy tackled me," he stated matter of fact, more like answering a simple question than biting back against my sarcasm. " Then kept hitting me."

Ah, the wonders of succinct conversation. If I had to admit to a positive about Sheppard, his getting straight to the point was it. Probably a military trait, or a pilot thing, or maybe he was simply a natural at it. Whatever it was, I was jealous. A few of my underlings (aka Zelenka) could learn from Sheppard in the art of avoiding minor, unimportant details during briefings.

" And none of it was preventable?"

Sheppard shook his head. " Didn't see him coming, or hear him coming, not over the gun fire." He then looked at me, straight on and pointedly, once again with a clarity that took me by surprise. " Didn't even see it coming, McKay. Can't really blame me for that, can you?" He returned his gaze to the flames and the glaze look took over as the dancing red tongues mesmerized him, reflected flickering red-gold in his eyes. " It happens sometimes, you know? Danger out of the blue, coming at you headfirst and so fast you don't even have time to blink. Then the next thing you know, you're on your back while some faceless grunt is giving you mouth to mouth, and he's got breath like a dragon after inhaling garlic, but you can't shove him off because at the moment your body isn't yours to boss around. Plus you're a little bit distracted by all the freakin' pain, the screaming which – you discover in a detached kind of way – is yours. Except you don't care. All you care about is getting away from the flaming wreckage that's too close to be safe, only no one appears to get that so let you lay there surrounded by hell fire with your heart pounding out of your chest and wishing with all you have to either pass out or be moved. One simple request – move me. Was that so freakin' hard?" He finished by mumbling under his breath " Bastards."

He flicked in more Q-tips like he was tossing popcorn to the pigeons. I glanced back at the door in the pointless hope of seeing Carson waltz through, or at least catch his voice off in the distance. Stumbles down morbid memory lane I couldn't handle. I mean what do you say to something that twisted and disturbing? What _can_ you say? I have a hard enough time being apologetic, and when I can I do everything in my power to avoid moments of having to provide comfort.

Just my luck, Sheppard wasn't finished.

" Ever have to smell your own blood, McKay?"

" Not as a habit, no. Colonel..."

" I think it smells worse when it's your own, but only when you realize it's your own. But that's not as funky as when you first realize your bleeding out more than you'd think the human body is capable of. You go through this kind of delayed reaction and think 'hey, I'm bleeding, well what do you know'. It's puddling up on the ground, soaking into sand, and you stare at it... just keep staring and staring until your realize 'son of a bitch I hurt.' Then how much you can bleed without dying kind of loses relevance." He put a Q-tip between thumb and forefinger, and with the other thumb and middle finger flicked it like a paper football into the burning can. I watched it go in, and imagined with an internal cringe the storm of Gaelic swearing that was sure to hit us all when Beckett saw what was happening to one of his many medical commodities. The Daedalus may have been our life line to earth and all the necessities it provided, but we continued to maintain a strong 'make do with what we got' attitude since deliveries took their sweet time in coming.

" Yeah, hurting sucks. Listen... uh... where _exactly_ are you going with this? Actually, I don't want to know. Why don't you just kick that can into the ocean to put it out, and come with me. Don't worry about contaminating the ocean... I doubt one can'll bring Armageddon to the Eco system. Then again you never know, so just leave it and come with me." I made to get up, but John, going the route of stubborn, remained where he was, flicking in more Q-tips.

" Can't. Not yet. I've gotta do something."

" What, sacrifice more Q-tips? Beckett's the witchdoctor, leave the placating of unseen deities to him."

John smiled, a little too insane for my comfort, but didn't say anything. Instead he reached across himself with his left arm to the tiny blanket of tissues and pulled them away, tossing them into the fire. He reached over again and lifted with a kind of twisted pleasure what looked to be a pen. A very familiar, very hated pen that sent electric ice shooting down my spine.

" Hey... is – is that...? Son of a... that's Beckett's penlight!"

John licked his lips and nodded. Escalating my shock, he held the penlight by the tip and slowly, with a shaking hand, raised it over the fire and dropped it in. My jaw dropped with it, my heart stopped, and the electric ice went rocketing through my veins. Forget the Gaelic cussing, Carson was going to kill us both.

And yet despite the inevitable torture I knew would come, I couldn't help the satisfaction of watching that mini-lightsaber of agony melt into charred plastic and circuits. We both fell into easy silence observing the flames dance and smoke twist and curl upward where the salty breezes caught it to carry it away.

" Don't you need to say some kind of prayer or chant or something?" I said after the shock wore off and I was able to actually enjoy the moment. Sheppard shrugged.

" I don't know how this works, I just know it's gotta be done."

" About time too. Pass me some of those Q-tips." I snapped my fingers repeatedly.

Sheppard held out the box, and I grabbed a couple to toss them in. Again the silence came over us say for the pop and crack of the flames. I regarded Sheppard, noticed the tired look, but also the contentment as though he'd just accomplished something big and was relieved that it was finally over. Probably the story of his life, not just here on Atlantis but before Atlantis, way before.

" Hope that by doing this the infirmary'll disappear?"

The muscles of John's brow bunched in confused consternation, confused _nervous_ consternation. " I uh... I don't know why I'm doing this." He was troubled by it, and I wondered if perhaps Beckett's many threats were finally sinking in. Well, no, then he'd look more afraid than uncertain.

Then he looked at me, and twitched an unsteady smile that made me long for the manic Wonderland grin. " Probably." He licked his lips again, and I got my wish when psycho smile made a comeback. " I hate the way it smells. You know, super clean and kind of sour?" He turned his eyes, then his head, back to the fire. " You'd think the smell would be all comforting and crap since that's where you're always saved. Except you're not really aware of yourself enough to care. _Although,_ " he held up a single finger, " you wake up at the right time, or walk in at the right time, to see a guy die... It's kind of all you think about. You smell blood, you smell clean and sour, and how the hell are you supposed to be all comforted with all that surrounding you? Blood, blood, and more blood, and I'm supposed to be happy about it? Mr. Happy go lucky busted, bleeding and humming the theme song from Happy Days while some guy in a bed next to me is moaning until he flat lines?" He snorted. " Screw that?" He tossed in a handful of Q-tips.

Cryptic rambling, all of it, but my logical, piece-it-together mind didn't want to leave it at that, so I pieced it together, without coming to a complete answer. Nearing one, however – one that was starting to shock me. Rather than waiting for more articulate meandering, I went for the blatant, because now I just had to know, even if it made me lose half my lunch later.

" Call me crazy... But do you have a thing about dying?"

John did another snort that made me proud, and looked at me like I was the biggest idiot in the galaxy. This role reversal was starting to get on my nerves.

" Doesn't everyone?"

I returned his scathing look with my withering glare. " Well, there was a time when I thought you didn't."

" Why? Because I seem to enjoy jumping in front of bullets and and get all giggly tossing myself off of hills?"

Oh, he was good. Too good, frighteningly good. I always suspected Sheppard was rubbing off on me, but the other way around I never even gave the time of day to. I would have liked to have reveled in it, but I wanted it to be my organizational and observational skills that made an impact, not everything else. Plus Sheppard pulling a me was just freakin' scary. Especially the way he seemed to be enjoying it, or enjoying the way it was affecting me. I don't know which, I'm not a mind reader, damnit!

Then the smile vanished to my momentary relief, though the heavy-lidded look of annoyance made relief short lived.

" Three words McKay." He held up his hands to tick off with his fingers. " Civilian, civilian, civilian. You, Teyla, and even Ronon. I don't care the training or what you think about it, but you're all my responsibility times three, you especially. I serve and I protect which sometimes means lots of pain and stinky, blood smeared, cold infirmaries. But here's the kicker, McKay. All the painful heroics you think I _enjoy_ pulling off? I _hate_ them!"

I flinched back at the way his voice burst into a snarl, and went rigid to keep from scuttling back. Saliva dripped down Sheppard's chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, seething, coughing, seething, and coughing again.

" McKay, I will save your life and every life on Atlantis any time of the day, without thought, without question. I will do what I have to, need to, walk lines, cross lines, step over the line and walk off a cliff if that's what it takes. But – but..." Manic laughter to go with a manic smile that didn't reach wild, frightened eyes. " That does _not_ mean I put up with getting hurt. And it sure as hell doesn't mean I want to die. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid to, I just don't want to if I can help it. But when you get close..." smile gone, insanity gone, leaving behind only a growing shadow of fear, " when you get close, like I do – it scares the hell out of you... Out of me. It scares me, thinking about it, back on it. Can't trust to those quiet moments in the infirmary, because it's all you think about."

Sheppard looked away and down, not at the fire but at the floor. He gradually scooted to the side, turning, to have his knobby spine resting against a pillar as the fire grew feeble, licking up the last bits of plastic and cotton swabs. Sheppard raised one knee to drape his good arm over, and stretched the other its full length. With a sigh, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

" If I die, I die. Doesn't mean I want to. I'll do it – if I have to. I just... I'd rather live. I _want_ to live."

I rocked back on my heels, then forward onto my toes, back and forth. For someone who was supposed to be tripping the light fantastic, Sheppard was making more sense than I cared to hear. Why? Because it was painful, like listening to someone beg, and I've heard Sheppard beg – in nightmares mostly as he lay in the infirmary surrounded by the stink of death and disinfectant. Sometimes when awake, and I walk in to see him writhing and pleading with Beckett to make the pain go away. Never when coherent; only when too distracted to care anymore.

I felt like he was begging _me_. And perhaps he was. Perhaps he was pushing me to see this side of him, this inner truth I'm normally blind to. Yeah, that's it, because in the end, when he's finished saving our butts, aren't we – Teyla, Ronon, myself – the ones saving his butt? Well, yes, Carson in all absolute truth... But who drags John's broken, bleeding self back through the gate? His team, that's who. So it's all mutual, the saving thing. Really, it should have been obvious a long time ago that Sheppard isn't all about going out in a blaze of glory. He fights too hard to stay on, no matter how close the call or the odds so stacked against him you'd think the numbers alone would crush him to death. We say it all the time when he's not their to hear – He shouldn't have survived, but he did, thanks to the powers that be I don't believe in.

Voices reached us through the silence, and we both stiffened, although I relaxed while John remained rigid enough to snap, eyes wide and breath coming fast. Then Carson appeared, followed by Ronon and Teyla. Carson let out a breath of relief, then got down and dirty with his bad voodoo self, angered gaze darting between me and Sheppard until finally sticking to Sheppard.

" Son, you're really tempting me ta strap ya down, spookin' ya or not."

Sheppard gulped, dropping his hand off his knee to plant it flat on the floor. He slowly, almost imperceptibly, began scooting away from Carson. I didn't even want to begin to know what he thought about restraints. I had a pretty good idea, and you'd have to have been living under a rock not to.

Carson raised his hands, softening just a tad. " I won't lad, but ya really are pushin' it. We can't have ya wanderin' about in your condition. We don't know enough about this bug... uh, virus... to be pushin' things."

The trepidation was pouring off Sheppard almost palpably, but he was resigned to giving in seeing as how there was nothing more that he could do. I was starting to wonder if the sickness was on the decline. He should have been running off screaming by now.

Carson's gaze flicked over to the can, and his brow furrowed. " Are those my Q-tips? What the bloody hell is goin' on?"

I sighed, and rose to interject before John could admit to his dastardly deed. " Carson, a word?" We stepped to the side, and when I spoke, it was in an undertone so that Sheppard couldn't overhear then get all mushy about it later. Not that he would on a normal day, but with this virus there was no telling.

" What if we struck a little deal with Sheppard?" I said. " You release him to his quarters, and he stays put so you can do a few routine checkups. I mean it's not like this bug's been progressing worse, and he might do better in his own room."

Carson sighed. " I don't know, Rodney. I'd really like ta have him where I can keep an eye on him."

" Carson, you've got a whole city that can help you out with that. Assign shifts or something. Hell, I'll even volunteer, and you know Teyla and Ronon'll want in. It's just... come on, don't tell me you haven't noticed how much Sheppard _hates_ being in the infirmary."

Carson narrowed his eyes in irritation. " You'd have to be a blind bugger not to."

I lightly thumped him on the chest. " Exactly. So you know it has to be stressing him out in one form or another. Let him be where's he's comfortable, and he might just be able to heal faster. Give it a chance. It doesn't work and he runs off again, then bring him back to the infirmary and stick a catheter where the sun doesn't shine."

I know, a little harsh putting that particular form of punishment into Beckett's head, but I was certain without a doubt that this would work.

Beckett mulled for a bit, then finally nodded assent. Clapping him on the shoulder, I turned back to Sheppard and gave him the ultimatum. I had yet to get to the part about the catheter when he was clamoring to his feet, swaying precariously until Ronon and Teyla hurried over to offer support.

" Let's go," he said, panting, coughing, wide-eyed and smiling with anticipation. Not the manic smile, but something more child-like and calm.

Carson grabbed the box of Q-tips and alcohol, muttering under his breath. The can we left to retrieve later after the contents had burned themselves out. Seemed fitting in terms of Sheppard's little ritual, though I couldn't really say why. It just felt right.

Teyla and Ronon were spared having to drag Sheppard thanks to Beckett's foresight on bringing a wheelchair left in the hall so as not to crowd the small balcony. We wheeled the incoherently babbling Sheppard to his quarters, where Teyla and Ronon aided him to sit on the edge of his bed. Except he didn't remain seated but bolted up staggering to where he kept his clothes, yanking out blue sweats and a T-shirt, then staggering to the bathroom.

Carson held up a finger. " Colonel, maybe you should let me..." The bathroom door slid shut. " Never mind, I'll wait."

The wait wasn't long since it wasn't like John was taking a shower. He came out in the sweats but still held onto the shirt, so was bare chested without inhibition. He really is a skinny SOB on any given day, with the exception of today being the excess visibility of bones and patches of fading bruises.

John dropped himself back to sitting on the edge of the bed for Beckett to do his thing with the stethoscope, checking heart and lungs, happy with the heart beat, tsking at the lungs but generally unperturbed about them. He looked over Sheppard's ribs, pushing them and earning a glare from Sheppard. He then felt along Sheppard's throat, praising how the swelling seemed to have gone down. He looked into Sheppard's eyes and reminded him to wipe his eyes with a damp cloth whenever he woke up. After that, he helped John into the black T-shirt sporting white block letters that read 'Normal People Scare Me'. He finished up with getting John beneath the covers, then he was done, and ushered both Teyla and Ronon from the room, leaving me to start off the baby-sitting shift.

" I'll be by later with a bit of broth to see if you can keep it down," Beckett said in parting. The door slid shut the moment he was out.

" Which means no Linda Blaire projectile vomiting," I added as an after thought. My best shirt was ruined thanks to Sheppard's aim. The man was more deadly with vomit than with a gun.

I lamented not bringing my laptop. But oh well, live and learn. I contemplated grabbing it when Beckett returned with the broth, and in the mean time occupied myself by glancing around Sheppard's room at various nick-knacks. The man had a skateboard - honest to goodness skateboard - tucked under his bed, which explained his lack or presence during his days off.

" Thanks Rodney," Sheppard sighed.

I winced, but should have known better to think against the inevitable. " Uh, yeah... no problem." I then looked at him suspiciously. " Staying put, right?"

He nodded with sleep-heavy eyes, then yawned. " You saved my butt back there."

He was speaking metaphorically, but those few simple words packed a punch on too many levels to count, and I couldn't help smiling. " Well, someone has to save you, seeing as how you have this overwhelming desire to stay alive and all." And we would... _I_ would, no matter what it took. Because, yeah, someone had to.

I didn't know if Sheppard heard, because he was asleep, breathing softly with less of a wheeze.

The door slid open, and Beckett's head poked in, startling me.

" Rodney, quick question," he whispered. " Have ya seen my penlight?"

My heart faltered, and I could only shrug since my voice refused to work. Carson sucked in a mildly frustrated breath through his teeth. " Bugger it, where'd I place the blasted thing..." he removed his head, the sound of Gaelic cursing drifting off into the distance.

I looked over at Sheppard to see him smiling.

I will later ask him how he did it, how he snagged the devil device, and will keep on asking him. And each time I do, John's answer will always be that manic smirk of his.

Which proves what I've always suspected – the virus hadn't done squat to his head. John has always been, and always will be, a lunatic. And as much as I hate to say it, I hope that never changes.

The End


End file.
